I need you, Joss
by ifwednesdaywasaflowerchild
Summary: John comes home from working a number while Joss enjoyed a day off and, in a rare moment of vulnerability, confesses his distaste for doing it without her.


A ball of bread dough beneath floured fingers, a glass of wine on the counter, and soft hips swaying to the tune of some old song, something sung by an older lady with an alto as rich as the wine - it is a snapshot of something John's been looking for, for far longer than even he realized. Something serene and content, a warmth to sink into a man, who'd let himself freeze in the harsh conditions of reality.

"That dough won't rise," he remarks calmly, simply, reaching for a glass tucked away in the corner and the bottle of wine that sits by her half-empty goblet to pour himself a generous helping. "Too wet, out."

Without so much as a glance in his direction, she lifts a jean-clad leg, and her foot forms a perfect arc - ballet as a kid, perhaps? - toward the stove and answers his remark with one of her own. "Oven, John."

His lips curve into a proud little half-smile over the rim of his glass, something he finds himself doing often, usually when she's bested him in their verbal matches. A flame drawing forth a moth; fascination and attraction. He watches her, the way she twists and pulls on the dough, the way the muscles in her arm stretch and contract with the easy movement. The annoyed breath when her hair falls into her eyes. The pause for a drink and the easy swing of hips to whatever is playing the background.

The wine is cool, tart fruit, and warm with age and uniqueness; something from an old vineyard upstate, only a few know about, and fewer still are privileged enough to receive wine from. Flared nerves settle, a comfortable heat flushes him, and the leather jacket he'd worn instead of his usual suit jacket, soon finds a place crumpled on her kitchen counter.

"Good wine?" she inquires when her dark gaze catches the ripple of pale skin when his t-shirt shifts, leather pulling at cotton.

"Hmm." it's her good stemware, he knows, so he's careful to set it down where any heated activities wouldn't mean its destruction. "The wine is good, Joss," one hand curls around the edge of the counter next to her elbow, and the other slips across her stomach, fingers creeping under the hem of her old alma mater t-shirt. He dips his face into her neck, pressing kisses into the silky skin. "But, the company is better."

Joss laughs, soft, happy, head tilting back against his shoulder, hands pausing, still wrapped in dough. "Bad day, John?"

"No," he speaks with such simplicity, if not for his directness, one would find it hard to gain information from his intonation. "Only one number, a simple case of teenage rebellion."

"Teenage rebellion is hardly simple, John." she reminds him, averting her attention back to the bread she'd been intent on making before he arrived.

"It is when you're fifteen and you have three siblings and parents that constantly argue." John chuckles, nuzzling at the collar of her t-shirt, adventurous hand thumbing the soft cotton of her sports bra. "She turned her cell phone off for ten minutes everyday, for a few minutes of not being pulled in five different directions."

"So, why did her number come up?" Joss wonders, dropping the dough into a porcelain bowl and draping a tea towel over it.

"Because her parents finally shut up long enough to notice GPS couldn't find her location." his hand is back on her stomach, palm flat between her hipbones, pressing her tight against him. "They reported her missing. Her number came up. I found her on a bench outside her school, half-asleep over a copy of Jane Austen."

"Poor girl." Joss sighs, turning the faucet on to wash her hands. Which might be a simple task if not for John's hand exploring her body, curious fingers dipping into the waistband of her jeans, rubbing the lace of her underwear. "Did you get her home?"

All she receives is an affirmative hum, muffled by the thin cotton of her shirt, where his face is firmly pressed into her shoulder. When her hands are free of flour and sticky dough, she turns in his arms, dislodging him from the comfort of being pressed against her, only to offer a sweet kiss for an apology, lips tasting of wine and flour.

"I missed you, Joss." such a rare confession from John, but it's true - today was her day off, and it didn't seem quite right to work a number, even one as simple as this one had ended up being, without his detective available should he need her services. Or, her patience to draw from.

"It was my day off, John." it's not so much an explanation as it is a reason for her not being there, even though if he'd wanted to talk, he could have called. She leans away before he can steal another kiss. "You did alright without me."

"Doesn't mean I don't need you." he's shifting, arms wrapping around her, leaning into her warmth. Lips pop against her flushed face. "I like having you with me, Joss."

"And, I like being with you." her soft sigh is one of content, even as her hands boldly slip into the back pocket of his jeans.

It's this moment, right here, that he enjoys the most. When Detective Carter gives way to Joss; tender and pliable and _safe._ Conversation drifts off in favor of sleepy kisses and the heat of her melts away the cold misery of the day; curious hands and tangled limbs and flushed bodies. Music plays, wine sours, and words of need and love are pressed into scarred skin.

Bread dough sits forgotten in a bowl.


End file.
